


As Ordinary Things Often Do

by sirdust



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Past Abuse, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirdust/pseuds/sirdust
Summary: Angel Dust’s position as Hell’s #1 adult film star has painted a target on his back for decades, but Valentino’s contacts have always managed to keep him from getting into too much trouble. When the moneymaker disappears for too long, investors begin to ask questions.He thinks he's being clever when he starts lying to Val about where he is. It ends up kneecapping his most important line of defense.Or: Angel Dust is forced to sneak halfway across Pentagram City with nothing about him but his wits, a snake demon who will probably stab him in the back, and a dangerously low supply of drugs.
Relationships: Angel Dust/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Minor Charlie Magne/Vaggie - Relationship, Past Angel Dust/Valentino
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Angel wakes up to the sharp tang of bleach surrounding him and the sensation of being driven down a street that hasn’t been paved over in what has to be, at the very least, decades. Instead of remembering where he is a few moments after waking up, as he normally would in this kind of situation, he processes the fact that he’s lying on his side in the crusty back seat of an unfamiliar vehicle. All six of his arms are extended and bound at the wrists with zip ties. Likewise, his legs are tied together at the knees. He blinks twice and grunts, struggling to right himself and get a better look at his surroundings. A bump in the road causes him to fly full-body into the air for a quarter of a second and land back onto the cracked leather seat with an ‘oof’, resetting his progress. His head lolls over the edge of the seat and the blood rushes to his head as he tries to worm his way back into a slightly more comfortable position, but the cabin is cramped and unaccommodating to his long limbs. He cranes his neck as he peers towards the front seats, unable to catch a glimpse of the driver or any sort of passenger.

“Kinda sticky back here,” he pipes up. “You have to use a little more than bleach to clean out a car, y’know.” He props his legs as best he can against the right-side window, which is covered in duct tape, and pushes himself into a position that better resembles sitting. He struggles to maintain an upright position as the car continues to bounce along, leaning against the window behind him so that he doesn’t fall when another large pothole is driven over. “See, a good trick for that is--”

Somebody shushes him from the driver’s seat. Quick temper on that one, it seems; he can work with that, and he lines up a series of quips in his mind to rile them up further. If they didn’t gag him, then this is what they should’ve known they were signing up for.

“Now,” Angel says, “Are you alright with reminding me exactly how I got all tied up here? I mean, as long as you’re planning on compensating me for my services, I don’t mind too much.” He’s half-serious. It’s not like this would be the first time he had picked up a client while completely zonked out on something or other. Nonetheless, something about this mood feels off, and nobody responds. Angel looks down at the seat, gears in his brain turning through a still-present fog of drowsiness.

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s how you wanna be, do you think that you could at least gimme a little more wiggle room? Seems I’ve forgotten our safe word, but I hope that isn’t a problem for y--”

“Shut up,” hisses the driver. Angel smirks and rolls his eyes. He catches a glimpse of movement from the passenger seat, but whoever is sitting there doesn’t speak up.

Angel begins to shift his conveniently thin wrists towards one another so that he can slip out when a good opportunity arises; even if his captors can see what he’s doing, he can manage to slip out and cause a stir before they can act. If they don’t notice, all the more power to him. It’ll be easier to brute force his way out onto the street, and once he gets into an open space, he’ll have the layout of the city on his side. He’s a bit rusty without any guns or a partner like Cherri on his side, but he’s quick on his feet and he’s good at dodging blows, so he swallows down any anxiety he feels and focuses on the task at hand.

For the next several minutes, the car continues on in relative silence, the only interruption being an irreverent comment or two from Angel or the thunk of a common pothole or bump in the road. Angel can’t see as much as he would like of the area from where he’s sitting, and what he does manage to get a proper glance at, he isn’t sure he recognizes. At some point long ago, he had made it a goal of his to learn the ins and outs of the city in the same way he had with New York, but once he had realized the sheer scale and scope of Hell’s biggest metropolis, he had put that ideal to rest. Between filming and Valentino and other business negotiations, he’d found it difficult to explore the city as often as he had originally intended to anyways. Going out with Cherri had been fun, sure, but that was typically confined to nightclubs and turf wars and other hotspots of activity, and eventually, he’d hardly found himself venturing more than a dozen or so blocks from the city center. Things change. The admission is a little bit deflating for Angel, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and tries not to let it get to him. Now is definitely not the time to let past disappointments overwhelm him. Besides, he thinks--a little mystery keeps things interesting, or some shit like that. That’s what they say. Probably.

The car does come to a stop eventually, and Angel braces himself for what comes next. The two demons in front of him exit their seats and circle back towards the door behind him. It opens and harsh red light filters in, causing Angel’s eyes to water as they adjust. He looks back and the two demons who have been driving him around make themselves known to him; they seem awfully similar in appearance-twins, maybe--though the bulk of their faces are covered by bandanas. They remind Angel of sheep and their figures are short and stout. Flesh-colored horns protrude from the sides of their heads and curl back over themselves in a winding curve, and their ‘wool’ is some shade of green, though it could also be described as turquoise if you squinted at it from just the right angle. Their eyes are typical of the species they resemble; black slits for pupils with yellow irises and thick, dark eyelashes surrounding them.

One grabs him by the shoulders and swiftly yanks him out. The other, not missing a beat, catches him by his legs before they hit pavement.

“So,” Angel says, “are you going to undo that tie and let me stand up, or are you just gonna carry me all the way to our seedy little motel room? My legs work just fine, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He squirms for emphasis and the sheep carrying his legs fumbles gracelessly, struggling to keep hold of him. The sight makes him laugh. The slap on the back of the head he receives after makes him grunt and stick his tongue out like a petulant child. “You guys are a little too boring for my tastes, if I’m being brutally honest here,” he whines. “Gimme more to work with? Please? It’s no fun being the only one making conversation.”

The bandana that the sheep at his feet is wearing shifts as its owner opens their mouth to respond, but a growl of disapproval from the other snaps it shut again. The air is stifling, thick with smoke and ash and the scents of sulfur and raw sewage, and Angel crinkles his nose in protest. The whole damn city is brimming with air pollution, but every time he thinks he’s experienced the most unpleasant things that Hell has to offer, it outdoes itself. It’s a wonder the sheer disagreeability of the atmosphere doesn’t give him a nosebleed. “This your neighborhood or something?” he asks. “You know, I’ve always wondered where exactly the people who kidnap the pretty folks that they see in the movies go back to at the end of a long and hard day. Not too different from what I pictured, frankly. Does your apartment have a room specifically for flaying people and stitching together different pieces of skin, or is it more of a studio?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” the sheep carrying his legs hisses. A reaction. Finally.

The sheep carrying his shoulders lets out a resigned sigh.

“Not unless you make me.” Angel winks and flashes a sly grin. Seems like that was the last straw; the sheep drops his feet to the ground with a hard thud and lunges toward Angel with their hands outstretched, ready to wring his neck. It’s the kind of opening that Angel’s been hoping for.

He slips his first and second pairs of hands through the zip ties simultaneously and wrenches his shoulders from the other demon’s grasp. He reaches to undo the tie at his knees and swings his whole body forward, headbutting the sheep charging him with a splitting crack. The leg tie falls and Angel immediately begins to stumble, stars swimming in his eyes and the ground turning underneath him, his world suddenly transformed into a kaleidoscope. Headbutts always seem like a good idea in the moment. The wave of nausea he swallows down tells him it was a dumb move anyways.

Before he can dwell on his discomfort further, the demon at his back makes an unsure grab for his hands and pulls him hard towards the ground. Not sure he’ll be able to stay awake if he allows his knees to buckle, he kicks backwards and feels the heel of his boot collide with something fleshy. It must be either the gut or the crotch, because the sheep crumples and folds like a piece of paper onto the pavement, doubled over in pain.

The headbutted sheep has recovered and is charging Angel again. He slips his last pair of hands free just in time to punch them square in the face; their bandana flies clean off their snout, floating delicately to the ground a few feet away, and a flash of green blood spurts from their nose on impact. The distant voice of a tenant cries for them to pipe down, but otherwise, the street is rather quiet. The flow of traffic sounds almost distant for once. Angel leans on his knees, catching his breath and blinking away the last few streaks in his vision. His head is throbbing in pain, but otherwise, he’s feeling mostly okay.

The sheep he just clocked looks to be out cold, but the one he kicked is awake, if visibly dazed. They’re lying on their back. Still incapacitated by Angel’s stiletto, apparently. He switches to a disaffected expression and looks down at them. “Alright,” he says. “What’s the deal with you and your buddy over there? If you’re crazy fans, try finding a more original motive. That’s nothing new to me.”

They suck in a belabored breath and glare up at him wordlessly. Angel isn’t impressed; he rolls his eyes and places a boot onto their chest, applying only a bit of pressure. “I can always squeeze it outta you, if you’re into that kinda thing. I’m not afraid to break a few ribs, but if I recall correctly--” He scratches the side of his face, nonchalant. “--they ain’t much fun to deal with after the fact, and you still haven’t reminded me what our safe word is. So.” He begins to lean onto their chest, the air forcing out of their lungs. The sheep only wheezes in response.

Angel narrows his eyes and places more of his weight onto the demon’s torso. Their eyes widen for a moment before they resume their glare, a little more vicious this time. They’re trying to put on a brave face. It’s a cute--maybe even noble--little act, but Angel is deeply unimpressed and does nothing to let up. He hears their partner shift on the ground a few feet away,

“Stop it,” they wheeze. “Stop. She can’t--”

“This ain’t your business, fuzzball,” Angel spits back. “I’m the only one here who has a say in what she can and can’t do. For example,” he says, pushing down onto her sternum with considerable force now, “Unless she feels like being smart about this and telling me what the hell you two were thinking, trying to kidnap somebody like me, I don’t think she’s gonna be allowed to breathe properly.” His foot halts as the bone underneath bends to its limit. Another considerable shove and it’ll snap like twigs, or maybe some particularly brittle stick candy. If he punctures a lung, he can just press the other for information instead. Hopefully that concussion didn’t fuck with their memory too bad.

The two of them are ridiculous, he thinks. Angel has dealt with all kinds of underpaid and overworked criminals like this who, for some reason or another, are always tight-lipped when it comes to their bosses. He can almost understand that sort of misplaced loyalty, but to this degree? It just comes off as unreasonable, and since suckers like this were a dime a dozen, it gave endless cannon fodder for the upper echelons of their overheated and overpopulated metropolis.

Angel shakes away his growing sense of discomfort and makes direct eye contact with the sheep below him. “Nothing to say, huh?” he mutters.

Her arms whip upwards, but instead of reaching for him directly, she tears the bandana off of her face and opens her mouth.

He thinks it’s to speak, but instead, he sees an empty cavern.

She doesn’t have a tongue.

Angel recoils as if he’s been electrocuted and removes his foot from her chest as if it’s giving off sparks. Guilt floods through his veins like a tidal wave and it takes a good chunk of his concentration to keep his hands from shaking with it as he backs off. The sheep, still on the ground, gasps for breath. One hand clutches at the spot where Angel had been crushing her ribcage and he gives in to the overwhelming urge to look away, fighting the instinct to bolt into some alley or other.

“She can’t talk, you piece of shit,” the other sheep croaks. Angel shoots them a dirty look, disgusted by their attempt to claim the moral high ground. Any ethical criticism from a kidnapper is a ballsy-ass move on their part, and not in a way that comes off as charming. He looks down at his gloves and fiddles with one of the cuffs.

“Yeah, I got that.” Shame burns bright and hot on his face and in his gut. It’s not sympathy that he’s feeling for the two demons he just pummelled to the ground, because sympathy needs to be earned, he tells himself, and they’ve done nothing to accomplish that. Spiriting him away wasn’t exactly going to get them in his good graces, but he can’t help but suddenly feel that the rib-crushing thing was a heaping helping of overkill. That’s not the sort of person he needs to be.

If he’s being truly and uncomfortably honest with himself, that isn’t the kind of person he wants to be.

But he’s in Hell, he thinks. So it’s whatever.

He takes a deep breath and finds his voice again as he strides towards the car.

“Anyways, that doesn’t mean I can’t get anything of value off of you two. Whatcha got?” He opens the door to the passengers seat and begins to rummage around. His face contorts into a grimaces as his glove touches something wet and vaguely sticky between the cushions. “Contacts? Cards? A lock of hair that I can lick and identify from some dude I banged twenty years ago who still hasn’t gotten over me and wants to keep me chained in his creepy sex dungeon?” He glances at the sheep in the side view mirror. Light catches on the surface of something sleek and sharp in the console between the seats and he pulls a jagged knife out from underneath piles of loose change, fast food wrappers, and assorted junk of all shapes and colors. It’s no gun, but it’s better than nothing. He stashes it away in case he needs to surprise some random street thief who wants to jump him with it later. When he can’t find anything else of value, he slams the door shut and leans against it, thoughts racing. He can’t make sense of what had happened to make him wind up here; he’d had more than enough experience with roofies to learn how to avoid them without fail--and subsequently beat the shit out of anybody who tried to pull that. Maybe he’d snorted something that’d been laced before he got his hands on it. He can’t imagine that it was anything as simple as a chloroform rag or a sucker punch that had knocked him out, but without more information, he had no way of telling, and his appetite for interrogation had died completely. The voice of the noisier sheep interrupts his thoughts.

“If we carried that kind of shit around,” they manage, “we’d be dead in a week, and you know it. Half the bosses in this city uses masks, voice modifiers, and everything short of utter goddamn witchcraft to make sure they aren’t found out. It’d get them and every associate they got killed for good.” They push themself into a position where they’re sitting on their knees, but they return to the ground just as quickly, resting their elbows on the pavement and their head in their hands. Angel hopes that they don’t puke in front of him. “We know about as much as you do--maybe even less, since you’ve gotta have a couple dozen laundry lists of people who are out for your blood,” they finish.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Angel says. They certainly aren’t wrong about the fact that he’s made enemies over the decades, but that doesn’t mean he knows them by heart. Valentino would always cradle his face and tell him not to worry about it, that he had it all covered, and that the only thing that he needed to concern himself with was the next session of filming. If Angel ever expressed any dissatisfaction with that response, his questions would be answered with a black eye or a bruised ribcage. Never anything that makeup couldn’t cover, though. In the present, he stretches, shedding the uncomfortable memory like an old skin and reminding himself to keep his head placed firmly in the now.

Angel looks back at the sheep. The mute one has succeeded in crawling over to her partner, who has collapsed again, in order to fuss over them like an attentive mother. Angel tells himself again that it’s pity--not sympathy--stirring in his abdomen at the sight. “Well, ciao,” he comments. The two ignore him. Oh well.

He has more important matters to attend to than bidding a heartfelt goodbye to two demons who seemingly want as little to do with him as he does them. Figuring out where exactly he is, for starters.

The flow of traffic can be heard from all directions, but he listens for the loudest congestion he can pinpoint and sets off in that direction. The chaos of the greater city reaches out to him, eager to welcome him back with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new fic. [shania twain voice] let's go girls  
> chapter 2 is already complete and will be posted next week, in the meantime i'll focus on getting chapter 3 done


	2. Chapter 2

Vaggie is good at recognizing when Charlie is nervous. Typically, she’ll tap her fingers against the surface of a table. She’ll bounce her knee. She’ll find some way to move, because when Charlie is nervous, she’s as mobile as a live wire and needs to find some way to get rid of the excess energy before she pops like a champagne bottle. Vaggie knows how it feels.

She finds her in the hotel lobby biting her lip and twirling her hair around one of her claws, leg bouncing like the ground below her is shaking. Vaggie pulls up a chair and sits next to her. Charlie barely seems to register the motion at first before the pieces click into place and she offers an overly-enthusiastic greeting.

“Hi, Vaggie!” she says. Her eyes are as wide as saucers and she looks as if she’s ready to puke up her guts. If it wasn’t clear enough already, something’s definitely up.

“What’s the matter, hon?” Vaggie asks. Her voice is coated with a thick layer of concern. Charlie directs her stare to the tabletop and shifts uncomfortably. She responds after a few seconds of hesitation.

“Angel Dust’s been gone for a couple of days,” she says. “He’s supposed to check in at the desk at least once every twenty-four hours, even if he can’t stay the night.”

“Yeah,” Vaggie nods. She’d been the one to make that suggestion when they had been brainstorming hotel policy. Charlie must’ve forgotten. “He hasn’t called, has he?” She couldn’t say that she was missing his presence, but she isn’t a fan of the distress apparent on Charlie’s face.

“No.” There’s a subtle waver in Charlie’s voice. Vaggie feels her own anxiety spike when she hears it.

“Well,” she says, trying to keep her tone as calm and reassuring as possible. “He is a sex worker. Maybe he got holed up with a client for a little while and forgot to call. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Then he should be answering his phone,” Charlie says. Vaggie hums, pensive. “He should’ve seen the messages I’ve left by now, right?”

“How many have you left?”

“Not that many at first. But, you know, after the first night--” She pulls out her phone and opens her call history. It shows one or two dozen unanswered calls as she scrolls through. “I got pretty worried. And then I got a little frustrated, and maybe, I, uh.” She puts her phone back in her pocket, a sheepish look on her face. “I may have overwhelmed him a bit.”

Vaggie closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. Holds. Releases. She opens her eyes and looks at Charlie directly. “Charlie, Angel’s kind of a handful. He probably just hasn’t responded because he thinks he’s getting back at you for spamming him, or something. Has this been eating you up this whole time?” She’s a little upset with the idea that something has been bothering Charlie for days and she wasn’t able to notice it. Charlie purses her lips and remains quiet. It’s obvious that there’s a lot on her mind.

The surface of the table hasn’t been cleaned since last night, which is unusual, because Niffty tends to organize the hotel top to bottom at the crack of dawn. Cards are still scattered about its width from Husk’s game of Solitaire last night. Vaggie’s idea. It isn’t a perfect solution, and she guesses that Husk is still finding ways to get out and gamble when she and Charlie aren’t looking. But it’s a compromise. It’s a start.

Charlie breaks the silence. “The problem is that I don’t want to find out too late that he’s just run off a little under two months after starting treatment,” she says. “I mean, you remember how bad it looked last time it broke that he was, you know--”

“I do,” Vaggie agrees flatly. Her fingertips burn with the itch to pull something apart in frustration at the memory. She crosses her arms and waits for the urge pass.

“But I don’t know how we can start looking for him when we still don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, either,” Charlie continues. She looks for a moment like she wants to say something else, but the words die in her throat and her expression hardens. Vaggie understands the silent remark that hangs in the air; asking Lucifer for help would solve their problem immediately, but there’s no way that Charlie can bring herself to admit that kind of failure to him. She’s a creature of pride. In that sense, she and her father are very much the same--a hereditary trait that goes somewhere beyond the human understanding of the concept. As uncomfortable as she is with the idea, there are things about Charlie and her family that Vaggie is incapable of ‘getting’. She puts a hand around her shoulder and gently tilts her closer, letting her head fall into the crook of her neck. Charlie relaxes into the embrace and even though the tension doesn’t melt away from her entirely, Vaggie feels her heart grow warm at her girlfriend’s softened expression. She kisses the top of her head.

“We’ll get through this together,” she says. Charlie smiles at her gratefully.

The moment is ruined when Vaggie feels static crackle throughout the room, unconcerned with any tenderness or affection present. Loud clacking footsteps bounce down the stairs in a jovial and elusive rhythm.

“What an adorable display of affection,” Alastor comments from somewhere behind them. A studio audience lets out a chorus of stock saccharine ‘aw’s as Al cackles and continues his descent, landing at the bottom with a climactic stomp. “‘Nothing as wonderful as being with the one you love’,” he says, “is what I’ve been told. To be frank, however--” He sweeps around the table and snaps his fingers. Vaggie’s chair poofs out of existence underneath her and reappears to seat Alastor instead. “--I’d rather do just about anything else!” His hokey monologue is punctuated by the thunk of wood-on-wood as as he sets his cane against the rim of the table. Vaggie picks herself up off of the floor, teeth clenched together. Charlie places a soothing hand on her arm, but Vaggie doesn’t feel any better. If Charlie really wanted to make her feel better, she would tell this neon red shitstain to piss off. She knows that that isn’t going to happen and opts instead to wordlessly pull the nearest empty chair towards herself from the end of the table, allowing the legs to grate harshly against the floor. If Alastor wants loud and obnoxious then he’ll get loud and obnoxious.

After Vaggie sits down again, Al opens his mouth and resumes. “What’s troubling you ladies? And by ladies, I mean Charlie,” he says. Charlie smiles awkwardly. Vaggie groans internally and glares outwardly. “It strikes me that something is amiss in this little paradise of ours, and as a man who’s invested in said little paradise, I’d like to be in the know.”

He says so many words. All of the time. It strikes Vaggie as incredibly unnecessary, but Charlie answers as if she isn’t speaking to one of the most stress-inducing individuals Vaggie has ever had the displeasure of meeting. “We’re having a bit of a problem with our client--Angel Dust,” she says. Alastor nods along. “He’s been missing for a couple of days now, and I’m worried that something bad may have happened to him. Or that, you know,” She trails off. “...He maybe ran off?” The last part comes out like it’s a confession to something shameful and the embarrassment in her voice makes Vaggie want to wrap her arms around her, or yell at Alastor to leave them alone, or both. He doesn’t speak right away and Vaggie watches as the gears in his head turn behind his eyes, but the second of contemplation ends as soon as it started and his voice fills the lobby once more.

“Lucky for you, my dear, I happen to be an expert in long distance communication.” He grips his cane and brings the microphone to his lips with a showman’s flourish. “But I should hope you’d already found that obvious. With just a bit of elbow grease, I can project my voice across the nine circles and guide your little friend back, no matter where he is. The only hitch is that he needs to be somewhere within range of a device that I can influence, but really--” he laughs, “--with my help, our patron will be back safe and sound in no time at all. That’s the power of radio, songbird.” Vaggie scrunches up her nose at the new pet name as if she's smelling something rancid. Charlie remains as unfazed as ever, eyes twinkling in delight.

“You’ll really help?” she asks, leaning across the table in excitement. “That’s amazing! Thank you, Al!”

Alastor’s grin widens. He, too, begins to lean over the table, stretching out a hand. “Sounds like we have a deal, th--”

Charlie opens her mouth to say something, but Vaggie practically leaps across the table to slap Alastor’s hand away, cutting her off. Fury flashes through his eyes for a split second before he retracts his hand and allows it to rest on his lap. “No deals, shitlord. Do you need a reminder?” Vaggie growls. She feels Charlie tug the crook of her elbow and she slowly leans back into her chair, eyes fixed on Alastor the entire time. It’s only when Charlie puts up her hand and begins to whisper in her ear that her gaze shifts.

"I can take care of myself, remember?” she says. “Vaggie, you gotta trust me. I can handle him.” She turns back towards Alastor, wearing an unreadable smile of her own. “Vaggie’s right; no deals. As the princess--” She stops short for a moment, still unused to giving proper orders. “As the princess and heir to the throne, I order you to help us bring Angel Dust back to the hotel. Safely.” Alastor doesn’t seem impressed, but he says nothing, and Vaggie is grateful for that. She stares at Alastor. He’s looking at Charlie, but she knows that he can feel her eyes on him, and it gives her a sense of satisfaction and superiority. “That sound good?” The certainty in Charlie’s voice begins slipping once more. Vaggie reaches for her hand underneath the table and gives it a squeeze. Charlie squeezes back, though it doesn’t feel as certain as Vaggie’s.

“Seems agreeable to me,” Alastor says, grin tight. He stands suddenly and Vaggie and Charlie snap their chins up to maintain eye contact. “Now, what I’d like you to keep in mind is the fact that Angel Dust may be in an area with startlingly few objects that I can broadcast through nearby. I’ve been to parts of Pentagram City with an outright disdain for technology--I mean, I can understand the newfangled nonsense that younger demons like you are so fond of--” He points his cane at Vaggie. “--but I can’t imagine life without the radio! How dull that would be.”

“And what that means is that…?” Charlie fishes for elaboration.

“And what that means is that I may be unable to get in contact with him right away. My voice may be recognizable anywhere, but some are still awfully close-minded when it comes to new forms of entertainment.” He pauses for a second, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “We may have to wait a day or two for him to respond to us. I should be able to pick up on his gab once he’s within hearing range of one of my broadcasts, but if it takes a bit longer than expected, fret not.” The eyeball on the top of his cane opens.

"Fret not, dear audience! We’ll be back after these messages!” it exclaims before closing once more.

“See?” Alastor laughs. “If you won’t take my word for it, take his!”

“Well, whatever,” Vaggie sighs. “If we don’t have a choice, then we don’t have a choice.”

“Ready when you are, Al,” Charlie affirms.

“Glad to hear it!” he says. He taps the microphone on the end of the cane and sounds from across the city begin to filter in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second chapter is up!!! working on third chapter at the moment so keep an eye out for that some time next week most likely, story is about to really kick off. hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

The harsh ambiance of the city is doing nothing for Angel’s headache.

Once he’s stepped out onto a more bustling street, he takes a moment to lean against the side of a building with bricks warm to the touch and survey the environment. He wishes for a cigarette or a joint or something he can occupy his empty hands and racing thoughts with, as various scenarios play out in his head and begin to derail into a hundred different ‘what-ifs’ regarding his current situation. Dozens upon dozens of faces that are unfamiliar and unfriendly pass him by. Most ignore him, but there are several who seem to recognize him, doing double-takes before hurrying along or stopping in their tracks and outright staring. Those who stop are bumped into, prodded, and pushed by other pedestrians who are none-too-happy to be held up on their commute to nowhere important. The gaze of others makes Angel feel exposed in a way he hasn’t in a long time, and he scans the variety of signs hanging off of buildings, advertising a selection of bars and pubs that he could dive into in order to escape the feeling of being watched. He spots an entrance to a building with a sign that marks it as some sort of watering hole and pushes his way past the crowd, ignoring the crude remarks and insults slung his way. He doesn’t have the time or energy for another fight.

When he enters the bar, it’s small and crowded, brimming with a number of demons that it was not built to accommodate. On the wall, he catches a glimpse of a plaque stating that the maximum capacity of patrons that can fit is one-hundred and fifty. A quick look at the plethora of faces inside immediately proves that the limit has been exceeded. There are no visible empty seats, so Angel instead opts to station himself at the counter, drumming his fingers on the wood. The floor is made of something like stone and glitters with drinks that have spilled and dried into sticky paste. Many patrons are smoking a variety of substances that Angel could name based off of scent alone, as quickly and accurately as his first name or the neighborhood where he had grown up. He looks to the demon sitting on the bar stool nearest to him and taps him on the shoulder. The demon whips his head around and glares at him with a speed that feels almost practiced.

“Seems like you ain’t having the best day,” Angel says, voice low. “But I need a bit of direction, y’see, and you seem like you’re the type to know your way around.”

“Not interested,” the demon retorts, gaze hardening. He knocks back his drink and turns to look straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact. “You want a fuck? Go pester somebody else, beanpole. I’ve snapped guys bigger’n you in half as a morning warmup.”

“Wasn’t propositioning ya, hot shot. I’m being serious.” Angel feels himself growing irritated. If this guy was going to be an asshole, he could at least be nice about it.

“Still not interested.” The demon’s knuckles go white as he grips his glass harder. Angel half-expects a vein to start popping out of the side of his head.

“Well,” Angel scoffs, “you seem very proud of yourself for that.” He turns and glances over the faces of others in the room; as expected, every single one is unknown.

“You gonna buy something, or what?” a voice squeaks from the counter. Angel looks down to see a demon who looks very much like a regular mouse that just so happens to be wearing a bartender’s uniform and walking upright. It’s an amusing image and Angel can’t help but crack a smile.

“Nah,” Angel says, “I’m good.”

“Then buzz off!” The mouse demon jumps up and down on the tip of Angel’s ring finger. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest. He flicks them away and they fly back into the wall, squealing. He hears them grunt as they hit the floor.

The next pub he steps into isn’t nearly as crowded, but it makes up for it with the strong scent of ammonia and the unidentifiable slime running down one of the walls. Angel fights back his disgust as he takes a seat and realizes that the lump on the counter in front of him is a pile of dead bees. He brushes them to the floor and wipes off his glove on one of his coattails, sneering uncomfortably. The apparent owner of the establishment, who is cleaning glasses with her shirt, is a giant cockroach. Lovely.

“You the owner of this here--” Angel pauses. “--establishment?” He would hardly call it a business. It looks like every seedy front in New York cannibalized each other and shat out a miraculous conglomeration of all their worst qualities.

“Unfortunately, yes,” the owner nods.

At least she’s self-aware, Angel thinks as she pours him a glass of booze he didn’t ask for and sets it in front of him.

“You moved my bees,” she continues, looking down at the ground. The bees are strewn about sadly. Their flimsy kingdom has been toppled.

“Uh--” Angel fails to think of a response as she bends over and picks up each insect one-by-one, piling them carefully back onto the counter. He runs his finger around the rim of the glass and tries to find his next words.

“It’s a conversation starter,” the owner says, as if that explains anything. “Seems like every place around here has a new scandal coming out of the blue every night to bring people in. I need something to keep my place interesting.”

Angel isn’t sure that a lack of sanitation is it, but he bites his tongue and hums in agreement instead. He needs to focus, but a cloud is beginning to settle over his consciousness; it must be withdrawal. That’ll be a problem for future Angel Dust to worry about, he decides. He absentmindedly looks down at the bottom of his glass, wary of any free-floating chunks or dead bugs that may be within.

“So,” he says, placing it back down rather than taking a sip. “I’m looking for directions to the city center. I’m--” he cuts himself off, still piecing together his next sentence in his head. “I got kinda discombobulated while I was out and about. This city’s like a maze, y’know? One moment, you think you know where you are, and the second you let your guard down, you’re a million miles away from where you wanted to be.” It’s a half-truth.

“I wouldn’t know,” the bartender says. She picks up the head of an unconscious patron to clean off the drool and overturned liquor from the countertop underneath them. “I never go any further than I need to for groceries and supplies to keep this place afloat. Never was good with city life. Always reckoned myself to be more the cricket type than the cockroach, I guess, but it seems that death had other plans. Thought for sure I would end up with the man upstairs in a nice country cottage.”

Angel thinks to himself that the state of the pub is proof she’s mistaken on the cockroach subject, but out loud, he agrees. “I get that,” he says. Only theoretically, of course; he finds his own form quite suitable for his goals and interests, and the stink of the city is only somewhat alien to him, and, ultimately, he’d always known somewhere deep down that he would end up here. “But, uh, does that mean--”

“‘Fraid I can’t help you out with your navigation situation,” she says. “You can always ask somebody else. Or call a taxi.” She shrugs. “Sorry, kid, but this ain’t really my problem. You understand.”

Calling a taxi. Now there’s an idea. Sure, the idea of getting into a car so soon after being kidnapped in one is a little off-putting, but it’s probably the most efficient route on his way back to familiarity, and he doesn’t have any cash on him, but it’s generally not too hard to convince the drivers that he can pay the fee in other ways. “Sounds good to me,” he says, standing up. He’s on his way out when he hears the bartender call to him.

“Hey, wait. You gotta pay for your drink.”

“Never ordered it,” he responds, closing the door behind him.

The cab he ends up in is stuffy and smells weird, as if the heating unit broke ages ago and the driver has never fixed it but still keeps it on for some reason. It’s a ride, though, and that’s what counts. He lets out an airy sigh and takes a seat in the back. He’s still on edge, but he shoves his irritation down and leans towards the driver’s seat. The demon sitting in it takes a puff of his cigarette and asks “Where to?”

“City center, if ya please,” Angel says. He sits back. “Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I cracked a window, right?”

Before the driver can answer, Angel reaches to roll it down. He stops when he hears the lock click and grumbles. “You coulda just said ‘no’,” he says, stretching out as the car begins to move. One leg rests underneath himself and the other is stretched to the far end of the seat in the hopes that he can catch the driver’s eye.

Through the window, the city passes by, apartment complexes and billboards and myriad other structures draped in crimson light. The driver is awfully quiet and Angel’s internal monologue begins to go wild to compensate for the silence, but he’s soon overwhelmed by his own thoughts and shifts his attention towards counting the number of trash fires he sees as they drive. Unease continues to gnaw at the back of his mind. He still isn’t sure why he was spirited away to begin with, and not knowing where he is only makes it worse. He may have a few ideas, but the lack of certainty only gives way to any number of equally implausible and disturbing reasons for how and why he was transported so far away from his usual shelter. His nerves only worsen when he notices that they’ve been on the road for at least half an hour, but he still hasn’t caught a glimpse of anything familiar to him. Cherri had shown him areas of her territory further out of the city’s center before, and he feels as if he should’ve at least seen some of those by now. Distantly, he hears the car radio crackle.

“Hey,” Angel says, turning back to the driver. “You got a phone up there I can look at?” He knows that his request will be turned down, but it’s worth a shot.

“Hell no.”

“Please?” Angel persists.

“Don’t have one.”

“A map, then?” he asks. He doesn’t know how to read maps very well--too many tiny lines, not enough words or pictures--but if he gets a good look at the names of the streets they’re passing and links them to the paths printed onto the paper, he might be able to get a better idea of where they are.

“Nope.”

Angel groans. “Can you at least tell me how far away we are?”

“Soon enough. Whining won’t make the trip any shorter.” The answer isn’t remotely what Angel is hoping to hear, since he can’t imagine that an estimate would be that hard to make, but all he does is cross his arms and huff as he sits up and leans his back into the seat. The radio’s volume seems to fluctuate as he continues looking through the window.

“You gonna play any tunes on that thing?” Angel half-jokes. The driver seems to like talk radio. He can almost hear a voice coming through, but it’s distant. A female voice shouts unintelligibly on the other end and he nearly jumps. Weird program.

“Why can’t--” Angel is able to make out a couple of words through the noise before the driver abruptly turns it off.

“Broke it in a crash a few years back,” he says.

“Wow. I feel so safe right now,” Angel replies. He sees the driver roll his eyes through the rear-view mirror. After another few minutes, the tension boils over. “I think I’m gonna get out now. I’m itchin’ to use my legs.”

The cab doesn’t slow down.

Angel’s heart beats faster. “What, did you not hear me?” he says. “I’m getting ou--”

“I’m surprised,” the driver interrupts. “I thought you were the vacant type, breaking things off with Valentino and all that. That’s a powerful ally you cut yourself off from. News spread quickly.”

Angel’s breath catches at the mention of his boss’s name. “I don’t know what you mean,” he half-lies, pulling at the door handle in vain. It’s locked. “He’s probably looking for me right now, and he likes to have a field day with anybody who fucks with me. Whoever told you we broke it off was giving you bad intel.” Adrenaline is rushing through his veins and something tells him that he can probably force his boot through the window if he gets in a good kick. That’d give him an out and attract people to the scene at the same time. He lays back across the seat and draws his leg in, preparing for the sensation of glass shattering under his heel and a spike of pain through his leg.

“Don’t kick that. You’ll just hurt your leg.”

“Likely,” Angel replies. He lets loose. Razors shoot up through his knee, but the glass cracks instead of crumbling. He swears under his breath in frustration and discomfort.

“Told you,” the driver gloats.

“Shut it.”

“Anyways,” the driver continues, “you really opened yourself up to attack from all kinds of folks who don’t like you--or Valentino and his empire--when that happened.” Angel tries to tune him out. An idea begins to form in his head as he prattles on. “I mean, I’m not the brightest guy around, but I do know what a good setup looks like, and, buddy, you really screwed the pooch on that one. I know some guys who would love nothing more than to get their hands on you and sell you off to the highest bidder. Or, you know--” He takes another puff of his cigarette. “--just get their hands on you.”

Angel’s stomach turns at the suggestion. He struggles to keep his thoughts on the passenger’s headrest in front of him and undoing the locks keeping it in place. He’s torn between gratitude for the fact that the driver seems to be enamoring himself with the sound of his own voice and the hope that he would go back to his previous, much less aggravating one-word answers.

“I have no idea what you were thinking,” the driver says, eyes glued to the road, and it parrots the voice in the back of Angel’s head. “Parting ways with somebody like that is bound to turn some heads, and not in the positive sense, if you know what I--”

“Sure, sure. I get it,” Angel mumbles. For Christ’s sake, he didn’t even cut Val off. He’d just been somewhat less honest with him than usual--needed room to stretch his wings, and all that. That was all there was to it, and if Val had found out and taken it as confirmation that he was quitting, then that was his problem.

Angel’s stomach clenches as the thought of one or several of Val’s henchmen looking for him. He hopes with everything he’s got that that won’t be yet another obstacle to look out for, but something tells him that taking chances on it would be a bad idea.

The radio turns back on out of nowhere right before Angel manages to successfully undo the lock holding the headrests in place with a subtle click. The driver perks up and Angel rushes to cut him off.

“Why did the radio turn back on?” he asks, perhaps too desperately. “I heard a clickin’ noise. I think it was the static.”

There are several voices on the radio now. Angel still can’t make out the exact timbre of their voices or what they’re saying, but they seem slightly clearer. The driver turns it off again, brow furrowed in what seems to be annoyance.

Angel takes a deep breath, gripping both sides of the headrest. He’s going to have to be fast.

He yanks the headrest out and slams the metal prongs jutting out of it against the crack on the window, widening it blow by blow. The driver’s head snaps back and he fumbles with the wheel in shock. They swerve onto the sidewalk, pedestrians scrambling to avoid being hit. The cab halts with a screech and a jolt as it slams into a mailbox, but the airbag doesn’t go off. The driver reaches around to try and grab Angel, who pauses his assault on the window in order to slam the headrest across his face. The crack in the glass gives way into an opening and Angel shoves his good leg through. He feels much less resistance this time.

The space is now wide enough for him to crawl through, but before he can worm his way out, the driver lunges into the backseat in an attempt to wrangle him up close. Angel tries to push him off, but he’s heavy, and the fact that he’s on top creates a massive disadvantage for someone as light as he is. Angel remembers the knife and extends an arm, feeling the blade sink into the driver’s gut. He recoils and Angel doesn’t waste a second as he pulls himself through the broken window, ignoring the sting of broken glass on his palms. Miraculously, the pieces don’t slice through his gloves or break his skin, but he can still feel where they made contact. In a daze, he hits the sidewalk chin-first, biting his tongue and bringing his headache back in full force. He pushes himself up, woozy, and runs off; the radio turns back on for a final time and it feels as if he can still hear the static even after the cab is out of sight. Once he feels as if he can run no longer, he slows to a walk and looks over his shoulder. He isn’t being followed.

He takes a minute to catch his breath, folding his extra arms back into himself, knife still dripping in his grip. The chances that the next car he would try riding in would also belong to some asshole with dollar signs in their eyes were apparently much higher than he’d given them credit for, but why should he expect any less at this point? This was his life story by now. Dumbass spider lets his guard down for five minutes, has his stupidity taken advantage of, and doesn’t know what to do except hold back tears so he doesn’t end up crying like a schoolgirl in the middle of the street from exhaustion and disappointment. More at eleven.

He wanders aimlessly for several blocks. He eventually takes a seat by a vending machine, and he can’t buy anything, but he’s tired and it gives him something to look at as his body struggles to recover from all that it’s been through in the last day. Last couple of days, maybe. He isn’t totally sure, but it feels like it’s been at least twenty-four hours since he was initially knocked out.

When he grows tired of looking at the orange glow of the machine, he instead directs his attention to the sky. The pentagram stares back down at him like an unblinking eye. ‘Yeah’, it seems to communicate, ‘good luck getting yourself out of this one, drag show. What did you think you were going to accomplish, exactly? When has being rebellious ever done you any good at all? Are you really that much of an idiot?’

Angel can’t stand to look at it anymore and instead casts his eyes to the pavement beneath his feet. It offers him nothing, but it doesn’t make him feel quite so small, and that’s enough to keep him from bashing his head into the wall or bawling where he sits or both. His chest and stomach burn with emotions that his head isn’t clear enough to name, and he longs for something to sniff into his bloodstream and soothe his frazzled brain.

After hearing his thirtieth catcall, he decides that it’s time to keep moving. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he stands and it clicks that the lack of drugs is his system is really beginning to take its toll. He continues following a random path of twists and turns, switching periodically between looking ahead and watching his own feet. He hopes he doesn’t throw up out of nowhere. He hates that part of withdrawal even more than the sense of disorientation and creeping dread.

The sidewalk is crowded and it’s difficult to avoid bumping into people, and each time it happens, Angel grows a little more tense. Rule of threes. Somebody else is bound to try and kidnap him soon, and this time, he isn't sure he can get away. The adrenaline that had been running through his veins earlier is now gone, replaced with the feeling that he’s moving through water, or maybe gelatin.

He feels somebody tapping on his calf and only questions it a bit before turning to look down at the person trying to get his attention. He’s ready to see some oddly short demon offering him cash for a night together or somebody who wants to sell him something.

What he’s not expecting is an egg on two feet with a top hat, suit, and wide grin.

“Hi!” he says. His voice is unexpectedly enthusiastic.

“Hi,” Angel replies, bewildered. This was one of that snake guy’s little minions from that battle alongside Cherri a while back, right? He’d thought Alastor had done him and all of his henchmen in. “Where’s, uh--you know, your boss?”

“Eating,” the egg responds. “He didn’t want me coming into the restaurant with him.” His expression slides into one of cartoonish disappointment.

“What restaurant?” Angel asks. The egg points down the street to a building with a sign hanging off of it that shows a bowl of soup, with painted-on rubberhose eyes and a mysterious green stain that doesn’t appear to be part of the design splattered over top. “Ah,” he says. He looks back down at him. “Did you, um--did you need something?”

The egg takes one of Angel’s hands and smiles. “I’m bored. Let’s chat!”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Angel says, but the egg is already pulling him towards the staircase of a condemned apartment building that sits further back from the street and gesturing for him to sit next to him. Angel doesn’t have the strength of conviction to protest further and takes a seat. If he were feeling more himself, he might take the opportunity to kick the egg’s shell in, but his legs aren’t in top shape right now and his mood is in the dumps, so he lets him be. The snake would probably end up devising some weird revenge plot for it anyways, and the last thing Angel needs right now is more enemies to worry about. The egg begins to launch into a soliloquy about all that’s happened since they last encountered one another. Throughout his anecdotes about the destruction of his boss’s ship and weird dogs he’s seen recently, Angel stares blankly at the flow of people across the street. He rests his chin on his hands and thinks to himself that he needs some actual rest. He might not be able to sleep, but he at least needs to rest his head somewhere for a while as he waits for his withdrawal symptoms to peak and subside. He’s shaken from his thoughts when the egg grabs his shoulder in excitement.

“Boss is coming!” he says, peering down the street at the entrance to the restaurant. He hops off of the steps as if there are springs in his legs. “I’ll see you later!”

“Who were you talking to?” Angel hears a familiar voice hiss. He slithers into view and stops dead when he spots Angel, his eyes--all of them--widening in surprise. The egg runs up to hug him, but is quickly pushed away. Angel stares up at him, too lost in the cloud surrounding his thoughts to react with any sort of shock in return. They make silent eye contact for several seconds.

“Hey, you,” Angel says. The other demon says nothing in response, only narrowing his eyes in what Angel guesses is thought. His bafflement transforms in an instant into a glare and he grabs the egg, slipping back out of sight.

“Where did you find this demon?!” he shout-whispers.

“Out here, boss,” the egg responds, matter-of-fact.

“We can’t compromise our position! He’s in league with Alastor. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times--”

“I can hear ya, you know,” Angel says, tilting his head towards the duo. “You’re pretty loud. I’m into that.” He winks to nobody.

Another beat passes before the snake comes back into Angel’s field of vision, still carrying the egg in his arms. “Alright,” he says, “I’ve decided that--”

“Wait,” Angel interrupts. “I forgot. What’s your name again?”

The snake scowls. “My name is Sir Pentious,” he hisses, “and you’d best not forget again.”

“Okay. Pentious.” Angel nods. He’ll probably forget it again. “Didn’t think I would need to remember it again. Thought Al took ya out.”

“Sir,” Pentious corrects, bristling. “Sir Pentious. And you were mistaken, clearly. It would require far more than the Radio Demon to take me down, and I’ve decided that you are going to provide me with information on him, or I’ll be forced to--” He glances away, briefly looking uncertain before he resumes eye contact. “--hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Angel asks. “That the best threat you can think of? Well, you better hurt me real good.” He cracks a sleazy grin.

The joke soars miles above Pentious’s head. “I will! It will be such effective torture that you’ll have no choice but to provide me with the information I need, or wish that you had never crossed my path.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think you need any torture to make me wish for that,” Angel says. He leans back, head knocking against the door behind him. Pentious scoffs. “Besides,” he continues, “if I’m giving you information, I damn well better be getting something out of it in return.” He neglects to mention the fact that he knows next to nothing about Alastor, except for the fact that he moves around a lot--detail courtesy of a drunken Husk--and that he may or may not have a tail. Alastor had denied the latter of which when confronted, but Angel was still skeptical.

“You will,” Pentious says. “You’ll get ‘not being tortured’ out of it. Sounds like a sufficient trade-off to me,” he says, setting the egg down, who flops over onto his side happily. The sight gives Angel an idea.

“Or,” he says, leaning forward and scooping the egg up, fighting the feeling of swimming through air, “I get something else out of it, and this little guy doesn’t get scrambled.”

Pentious doesn’t seem downright mortified, but anxiety still paints his expression plainly at the idea. He makes a sloppy effort to regain his composure, but his hat’s expression remains disquieted.

“I need help getting to the center of the city,” Angel specifies, trying not to slur his words together. The egg wriggles fearfully in his grip. “Nothin’ else.” He can’t tell for sure if his tone is firm enough to be convincing, but he can hope that it is.

“Fine,” Pentious says, rearing up and holding his hands behind his back in a facsimile of good posture. “But only because creating a replacement Egg Boi will be rather difficult, and I have much more pressing matters to attend to.”

Angel places the Egg Boi--weird name--back onto the sidewalk and watches as he rights himself, hugging Pentious’s tail. This time, he only shakes his head instead of brushing him off.

“And I want collateral,” Pentious hastily adds. Angel lets out a heavy sigh.

“Always something with you guys, ain’t it?” he says. “Fine. We can bang it out or whatever on the way.”

Pentious’s face curdles like milk. “No!” he cries. He doesn’t seem aware of his own volume. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

Angel crosses his arms and looks at him, unimpressed. “Well, I don’t have all day here, so you’d better give me an idea of what you want.” He’s growing uncomfortable again; the ball isn’t in his court anymore, and Pentious almost certainly has a better weapon than he does, so if a fight breaks out, he doesn’t know that he’ll win.

Weapon. That might work.

“You can have my, uh, lucky knife,” he says, words tumbling unrefined from his mouth. He pulls out the knife he’s been carrying around and Pentious flinches. It’s a subtle response, but it makes him feel a little better. “It’s been with me for years. Et cetera. Gotten me out of a million different jams.” The blood has only just begun to dry. It melds together into a coagulated, rusty, jelly-like clot that slowly trickles down the side. He holds it out to him. “You can keep it for now.”

Pentious takes it and turns it over in his hands, curling his lip. “It’s rubbish,” he says, carefully avoiding the blood as he touches it, “but since you have information on Alastor, it’ll do.” He leans down and wipes the blood off on the Egg Boi’s suit before pocketing it for himself. The Egg Boi stares at the stain for a short period before losing interest and waving to passerby.

Pentious offers his own hand to shake. “Truce, then,” he says.

Angel grabs it, a loud smack resounding as their palms collide. The scratches on his hand sting. “Sure,” he says, shaking his hand. He’s got this. “Truce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mario voice] WAAAAAAAA  
> story is kicking off so strap in! updates after this one may be slightly more sporadic but since i know where everything is going, waits between chapters won't be too long. it'll be a fun time don't worry


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